


The Alluring Spring

by Eavenne



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Gen, Genderfluid, Historical Hetalia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-05-09 00:27:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14705681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eavenne/pseuds/Eavenne
Summary: The Tang Dynasty was the Golden Age of China – and with it, Chun-Yan blossomed with the flowers of spring.(Originally from the kinkmeme – China is genderfluid here).





	The Alluring Spring

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally posted on the kinkmeme. Enjoy!
> 
> M! China: Yao 
> 
> F! China: Chun-Yan
> 
> Japan: Kiku

When Empress Regent Wu Zetian changed the dynasty from Tang to Zhou, China went from Yao to Chun-Yan – but when Wu died, and Zhou became Tang once more, Chun-Yan remained.

Chun-Yan delighted in the prosperous times: in the poetry, the music and the art. They made it easy to look the other way, to close one eye and pretend that the betrayals and battles and bloodshed typical of the court didn’t exist. 

It was all pointless, in the end. People died reaching for power and riches – sometimes they succeeded – but they brought nothing to the afterlife with them. Even Qin Shihuang, with his army of terracotta warriors and tomb with its river of mercury, could only crumble to dust: his legacy tarnished in a few generations, his dynasty that would last ten thousand years vanished before thirty. 

Soon, Chun-Yan learned to stop caring. Watching the same story play out countless times had made her weary, and so she decided to stop paying attention. The flourishing Tang dynasty left her with many things to distract herself with. 

Though she was a woman, Chun-Yan was never part of the Imperial Harem, nor did she have much of a role in the Inner Palace where she spent most of her time; while the concubines sometimes came to her for advice, Chun-Yan was largely uninvolved in the constant struggle of the imperial wives to sabotage each other and gain favour. As for the Imperial Court, memory of her previous role as advisor gradually faded, aided by her woman’s body, and Chun-Yan slowly slipped out of the Emperors’ notice.

Instead, she turned her attention to the little princes and princesses, who were young and innocent of the world. She’d strum the _pipa_ and sing poetry or teach them how to read and write, and Chun-Yan would think of her siblings and wonder what they were doing. It’d been too long since she’d last seen them. Kiku never seemed to visit along with his emissaries, and even the provinces closest to the capital Chang’an preferred to stay at their homes. It seemed to Chun-Yan that they only remembered her when they had something to complain about.

When she looked at the _dizi_ on her table, Chun-Yan would recall the deep green bamboo forests where she’d met little Kiku, and sigh. She supposed he had never met a female China – she’d have to remedy that someday. 

After all, Chun-Yan was unlike Yao. She blossomed in the spring, darting through the Imperial Gardens with her trailing sleeves billowing behind her outstretched arms, like a colourful butterfly. The children she chased after laughed and squealed as she scooped them into her arms, complaining that she was as swift as a swallow, but not really caring. The natural cheer that life’s daily wear had slowly killed in Yao bubbled up again, and to Chun-Yan, the future seemed dazzlingly bright once more.

Over time, it became easier to ignore the pain brought by the wars and rebellions (even as she had to flee Chang’an with the royal family, returning later) and court intrigue, and just focus on the children. The little princes and princesses grew up as quickly as bamboo. There were so many of them, and, as Chun-Yan made an attempt to spend time with each one, she had too much on her hands to even think about politics. 

Yet, time passed quickly, and as ever, was short and cruel. Bamboo, nourished by spring’s loving hand, grew swiftly but died in a decade – likewise, some children remained so forever, dead by poison or sword or a mother’s ambition. Those who survived were rarely better off: brother fought brother for the throne, and sisters walked into foreign lands out of duty to their nation. 

But even as Chun-Yan felt a piece of herself die with every child who passed before their time; even as her heart broke from the princes’ battles; even as the only thing she could give the princesses for their sacrifice was her love; she did not give up on any of them. 

In every child’s eyes, Chun-Yan could see innocence, and love, and hope that each day would be better than the one before. There was a time before their gazes darkened with the knowledge of what it meant to be cruel, or of the duty they were expected to do. Their smiles reached their eyes, which hid nothing, and they were free to laugh, or cry, without anything holding them back. 

Before those beautiful souls, Chun-Yan was helpless. There was nothing she could do besides laugh when they laughed, hold them when they cried, and watch them grow and wither, come and go. Whether she grew proud of them, or disgusted instead, Chun-Yan could only love, and remember their names when they died. 

By spending so much time around children, Chun-Yan had gradually shed the fatigue that had crept up in Yao, and felt young again, delighting at simple things and brightening up the room with her presence. Even as children left, she remembered their lives and time spent with her as a blessing, and reflected on the good times they’d shared instead of regrets. Without a need to hold anything back, Chun-Yan became a very different person from Yao. 

But all good times had to come to an end. Even as she hid away in the Inner Palace, Chun-Yan knew that the Tang dynasty was collapsing. It had never really recovered from the An Lushan Rebellion, which had destroyed the dynasty’s prosperity and sent it on a long decline, killing millions in the process.

When Chun-Yan was busy comforting the children, her people had been dying. Whether it was from fighting or starvation, she had felt the gnawing, hollow sensation that came with the loss of so many lives, and turned away from the pain and sorrow, because she had already seen so much war, and all she wanted then was to protect the young lives under her watch. People died all the time, and Chun-Yan thought at the time that this would simply be another tragedy, just the next in a long line of disasters. 

Back then, she’d had faith that the golden age of Tang would not be crippled by this one incident, and that her people would dry their tears and march on, undeterred. 

Back then, she’d thought nothing was unachievable, and that they would bounce back, and that she could keep averting her eyes from the strife of the Court and the plight of the people. 

Back then, she’d been a fool. 

Yes, Chun-Yan reflected as years passed and the dynasty crumbled, she should have done something, she should have tried to help, even if she didn’t know how. Wasn’t it her duty as China to protect everyone, not just the royal children? The Emperors’ children were not the only children in China, after all – every citizen, young or old, rich or poor, was Chun-Yan’s child, and hers to protect. 

Eventually, Chun-Yan faced the growing realisation that her love for the children was more selfish than she’d known. In the past, she’d thought of herself as a strong wall, keeping the children safe and secure from the poisons outside, nourishing them with her boundless love till they were ready to confront a turbulent world where smiles hid knives. But she knew better now, and she knew that, for her, the children were the real wall, shielding her from thoughts of her people’s suffering, letting her wilfully shower her attention on a select few when she should have been caring for all. 

By escaping from the violence and faithlessness of the Court she had forsaken her people, who loved her. 

For the next few days, Chun-Yan attempted to reintegrate herself with the Court. It had become clear to her that, in order to spare her people more suffering, she had to disregard her distaste for the Court and do all she could to keep the dynasty stable. It was only a mother’s duty to give up her happiness in search of her child’s own, and Chun-Yan had ignored that duty for too long. To protect the children – to protect all children – she had to involve herself in Court affairs once more. 

Yet, the officials disapproved of her. For a woman to involve herself with Court affairs was not unheard of, but very much undesirable. Despite her best efforts, they simply shot down everything she said. Chun-Yan did not have a base of power in the Palace – therefore, she was simply a woman, even if she was China, and her opinions were naturally ridiculous.

And so, China returned to being Yao after enjoying many blissful years as Chun-Yan. Slowly, his legitimacy as an advisor returned, and he did all he could to keep the sickly dynasty running. 

Ultimately, though, all of Yao’s work came to nothing. The Tang Dynasty fell in blood and ashes, dragging the royal children and loyal officials down with it as they were massacred, one after the other. Yao had known it was coming. The more he tried to keep the dynasty alive, the more it dawned on him that there was simply no way to save it. The Emperors cared more for hunting and luxury than helping the people, and efforts to re-establish authority only backfired. 

There was no way Yao could have stopped the killings – he tried, but the jails were watertight, and as China he was bound to loyalty towards the holder of the Mandate of Heaven – and so he could only look on, blink away the heat in his eyes, and carve their names in his heart for the rest of his days. 

Those years as Chun-Yan were some of the happiest of China’s life, fond memories that he would look back on to remind himself of why he had to strive on in pursuit of his people’s well-being. It was to protect everyone, to make everyone happy, that he worked hard, that he pushed himself. 

In years of prosperity, Yao’s spirits lifted. Slowly, his sunny disposition returned, and as politics moved in a less lawless direction, his heart opened up once more. 

And whenever China looks into the mirror and sees Chun-Yan instead of Yao, she pauses, closes her eyes, and the faces of her dead children swim before the darkness in her eyelids once more. For their sake, she smiles; she opens her eyes to see only beauty, joy and the brightness of tomorrow. She walks toward the future, and doesn’t look back.

**Author's Note:**

> – The characters in Chun-Yan's name can be many things, but I'm going with referencing 春艳 (Alluring/Glamorous Spring) and 春燕 (Spring Swallow) in my writing. I'm not sure if it's confirmed, but I interpret Yao as 耀 (Bright/Brilliant/Dazzling [as in a bright light]). While it's not relevant here, I see China's surname, Wang, as 王 (King). 
> 
> – Wu Zetian basically usurped the throne, declared herself Emperor, and then declared a new dynasty. She was the only female emperor in the history of China. After she died, the name of the dynasty was changed back, and life went on as usual. However, the fact that a woman became Emperor of China was what caused China to take a female form in this fill.
> 
> – The Tang Dynasty was Imperial China's golden age. They also started taking baby steps towards women's rights at the time, though this isn't mentioned in the fill.
> 
> \- Qin Shihuang (Shi Huang Ti) was the first Emperor of a unified China. 
> 
> \- The Inner Palace is where the Emperor's harem stayed.
> 
> \- The pipa can be described as a Chinese guitar, though it's actually pretty different. The dizi can also be described as a Chinese flute, and this comparison is slightly more accurate.
> 
> \- During the Tang Dynasty, Japan sent emissaries to China on a few occasions. I was originally going to write in a visit from Japan to begin the story, but didn't in the end. There was also a war with Japan in the earlier years of the Dynasty, but I'm headcanoning that Yao avoided meeting Kiku on the battlefield. 
> 
> \- There are many, many instances of Tang princesses marrying into foreign countries. Famously, Princess Wencheng went to Tibet, and was beloved there. 
> 
> \- The An Lushan rebellion is the incident that forced the royal court to flee the capital, lasted through three emperors' reigns, and that the Tang dynasty never recovered from. Something I wanted to mention but couldn't was that during the royal court's flight, the Emperor was forced to have his famously beautiful (she's one of the Four Great Beauties of Ancient China) concubine Consort Yang strangled to appease his angry bodyguards who blamed her cousin for the incident. 
> 
> \- Concubines and Empresses have had a lot of power in the Court before, but Chun-Yan doesn't have that kind of support from the officials here, which is why she's better off (marginally) turning into Yao and using his historical position as an advisor to sway the Emperor. Also, oftentimes they gain this involvement in the Court through being important to the Emperor, while Chun-Yan isn't. 
> 
> \- When the Tang dynasty fell, all the Tang princes as well as loyal officials were killed by the new ruler. I'm not sure what happened to the princesses.
> 
> \- The person with the Mandate of Heaven was the person with the legitimacy to rule China. But I'm simply saying that China, as a nation-tan, has to be loyal to whoever his new boss is, regardless of his own personal feelings.


End file.
